


Prelude

by AuroraRayne



Series: Adagio [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraRayne/pseuds/AuroraRayne
Summary: "Keep your secrets, Exarch." The Warrior's hushed voice cracks like G'raha has never heard, longing bringing him to break when not even the consuming light could. "Tell me why you smell like home."---(Pre-Kholusia conversation / Mt. Gulg.  Technically written as a prequel part of the series, but can be read separately/standalone.)
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: Adagio [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494056
Comments: 21
Kudos: 150





	Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I needed a quick longfic break and snippets of this wouldn't leave me alone, so. I debated on posting, but... more cake right? I technically wrote this with boys from Adagio in mind, but it can be read without knowing any of that.
> 
> Enjoy, &; apologies for any missed typos and/or stupidity.

The shimmering strings of a violin carry on the evening breeze, caressing G'raha's covered ears with their joyful song. The melody is one he knows, though the lyrics are long since lost to time. He imagines it was once a love song. To him, it still is. Words aren't always necessary to tell a tale.

In the tavern below his isolated perch on the outskirts of the Quadrivium, his people celebrate the night. He has had no shortage of invitations to join in their revelry, but accepting them would not be wise. A sip too many could lead to a slip of the tongue, and all of his work could be for naught. A brief moment of escape is not worth the risk of showing his full hand when he knows he already doesn't keep his cards as close to his chest as he should.

Besides, what better way to celebrate the night than to stand beneath the glow of its stars?

G'raha knows their patterns from his antiquated star charts and dusty astrology tomes, but somehow the first time he saw them not so very long ago, he was left speechless. The last stars he had gazed upon were the ones he was born under. Those stars were the only witnesses to his first and last kiss, to the blinding light of the love he let shine only once.

The stars above him now are strangers, and even after all this time, G'raha finds himself capable of feeling so terribly far from home.

The front door to The Pendants opens down below along the pathway, and home feels not so very far now as the Warrior emerges into the moonlight. As he walks, G'raha can see that the day of rest has done him good. The set of his shoulders is no longer slumped, his tail swaying in time with his step instead of hanging heavy between his legs. Somehow he catches sight of G'raha's figure along the railing above, and for the first time in days, he sees the other miqo'te smile.

Unable to help himself, G'raha smiles back. He tames the joy and relief he feels down to a small unassuming curve of his lip.

"Good evening, my friend," he calls down to the Warrior from the balcony, just loud enough to be heard. "'Tis good to see you on your feet."

Everything he feels in multitudes is expressed in insignificant parts. The Crystal Exarch is a means to an end, a cover drowned in deception no longer worthy of the depth of emotion he felt as a man. The depth he still feels, dredged up from the abyss by the one looking up at him with Lakeland's stars reflected in his disarming eyes.

He can almost pretend that none of this happened. He can almost imagine they are still two foolish boys back in their tent in St. Coinach's find, curled up together in their messily joined bedrolls pretending that they weren't on the edge of falling, the start of that terrifying something they only knew from bardsong.

The Warrior calls back, bidding G'raha to remain where he is. Legs that should be resting race up the winding stairs, carrying the battle-worn hero to G'raha's side.

"I am glad of your company, but I am also of a mind to direct you back down to the tavern. You have more than earned a place at this evening's party. 'Tis a shame to waste time spent hidden away up here with an old man."

He imagines those familiar eyes, clear and feigning amusement, finding where his own hide beneath his cowl. "I don't know what those books of yours say about me, but I'm not exactly fond of big social gatherings like that. A few companions is one thing, but this-" In the distance, a glass shatters and a woman shrieks, followed by a chorus of drunken laughter. "No thank you. I would rather spend time with my friend."

A wave of guilt dampens the visceral excitement G'raha feels at hearing the words. "You refer to me?"

"I don't see anyone else here."

Beneath his robes, G'raha's tail flattens against his leg, both in shame and to restrain it from betraying him. "You are most kind. To have earned both your trust and your-"

"Exarch," the Warrior interrupts, not unkind but baring a hint of reluctant command. It makes G'raha shrink into himself, hearing that voice that once spoke his given name with such affection now addressing him with an irritable bite. "I'm sorry, but I really don't want to talk about any of that. It's been more than enough the past few days with the light, and I-" The Warrior sighs, cutting himself off with a harsh huff that makes the tribal markings on his nose crinkle. "We have all done things we regret for a greater cause. You have your reasons. I have mine. Let us leave it at that, just this once, please? Maybe I'm a fool for thinking so, but I trust you. For whatever reason, I feel at ease when I'm with you, so yes. I consider you as my friend." Pointed ears fan back, abashed as the swell of his visible frustration ebbs. "I could really use one right about now," he adds with a rueful grimace.

Forgotten instinct makes G'raha reach out, but he catches himself before he touches the Warrior's arm like he so desperately wants to. He rips his hand back as if scalded. A warm chuckle melts the freezing flash of shame that makes him shiver.

"You will hear no complaint from me if you want to come a bit closer." The soft sincerity in the Warrior's voice is unnerving in all the most wonderful and agonizing ways. "I promise I won't pull your cowl back, as much I would like to."

In the face of the man that has always clouded his better judgement, G'raha dares a step along the railing. There is enough distance for polite propriety, but the extra ilms grant him a whiff of the Warrior's scent, so long forgotten but ingrained within him like a primal brand upon his being. It takes everything he has not to react, to not chase that smell of home to its source and surrender himself to its sanctuary.

Idly, G'raha wonders if his own scent still remains, or if it has been lost to time and the earthy smell of stone. He wonders if the Warrior would even remember.

"If it is a friend you need, please know that you have one in me. I only wish that circumstances would permit me to be a better one."

"Maybe someday," the Warrior says, offering a glimpse of a smile, of meager hope. "Maybe once this is over."

"I would like that," G'raha says, because it is the truth. It would be a gift beyond measure to speak openly with his old friend, the love he was forced to leave behind for a destiny unknown, but it won't be. It can never be, because once this is all over, G'raha will be nothing more than another villain vanquished in the Warrior's tales, just another man gone mad with power who met his rightful end.

There will be no glimpse beneath the cowl, no body to bury, no reason to mourn him. His wants conflict, clashing with bloodied blades and tearing teeth. The clamour of it is deafening at the Warrior's side after a century of unshaken certainty. 

More than anything, G'raha needs him to live. For that, he will keep his counsel at any cost.

Within the shelter of shadows, he closes his eyes tight. The cost is one he thought easy to pay for so many years, but now his resolve is shaken with his final stand fast approaching. He hadn't expected this- hadn't expected his forgotten heart to remember how it once beat.

It is not easy to walk quietly into death while looking upon the face of the one thing that still makes him feel alive.

"Humor me," the Warrior says, shaking G'raha from his morose distraction. "If we have to wait to really speak, at least tell me one thing."

G'raha's nerves prickle, ever on guard, but he keeps himself in check. "What would you like to know?"

"Anything. Tell me something you've never told anyone else, something no one has ever heard about the great Crystal Exarch."

This is dangerous and G'raha knows it, but the way the Warrior looks at him now takes him back to better days he'd thought forgotten. He seems so content, so invested in such a simple request. It is one of the few times since G'raha brought him to the First that he feels as though he's truly speaking with the man beneath the crushing heap of titles.

G'raha may no longer be merely flesh and bone, but he is still a weak, helpless fool where the Warrior is concerned. Let the others think he lauds praise upon the vaunted hero. It is easier to believe than the truth, that the agony of learning of his beloved's death and the overwhelming pride G'raha felt upon reading all that he had accomplished fused over a century into a singular mindset with no possible end except that which soon awaits them atop Mt. Gulg.

"If I tell you something of myself, will you return the favor? Assuming that learning you have a distaste for parties does not count."

"It doesn't," the Warrior says with a laugh. "That isn't much of a secret, it just wasn't interesting enough to make it into your books."

"You have your opinion, and I have mine. I, for one, find it most interesting."

"What, that I'm a bore?"

"You are not. Quite the opposite, actually. I believe you are fascinating," G'raha admits without the slightest notion of embarrassment.

The Warrior's laugh-curled lips soften to a peaceful smirk. "Is that the secret you want to share?"

"'Tis no secret at all,” G'raha says. The silence between them stretches wide as he thinks, growing ever more daunting by the second. "Forgive me. 'Tis difficult to think of that which I might say."

The Warrior makes a noise of understanding. "Would you like me to go first?"

"If you wish to, you are most welcome."

Anticipation and the sweetest dread tighten in G'raha's chest like a vise.

"You remind me of someone I used to know, a long time ago."

Breath punches from G'raha's lungs, and he prays he manages to smother the sound. His crystal grip scratches the railing as his hand tightens its hold unbidden.

"Oh?" G'raha asks, feigning blissful ignorance. "A companion of yours?"

The way the Warrior's wistful expression collapses tells G'raha everything he needs to know.

 _Grant me strength_ , he beseeches whatever deities of the First might hear him. He knows they will not listen. They never do. They left this forgotten world long ago.

"Almost," the Warrior says. "He was supposed to be, but there was something else he needed to do. I never saw him again. I never can."

"I am sorry to hear that," G'raha manages to say, even as his heart begins to splinter into shards. "It sounds as though he was of some importance to you."

A fragile, high-pitched laugh of defeat escapes the other Seeker's mouth. "That is… _quite_ the understatement, but yes. He was. He is. I try not to think about it, but there are certain things you say, some things you do that make me think of him sometimes." The Warrior tilts his head and smears a weary hand down his cheek. "I've never told anyone about it. _Twelve_ , I miss him so much sometimes."

The crack in G'raha's composure ruptures, a thin split in the ice beneath which he submerged his true self chasing after him, growing into a fissure urging him to surface. He bows his head to draw the shadows of his cowl further over his face, hoping that the Warrior cannot see the way he grits his teeth.

He tells himself that he is under control, and he hopes the lie is enough to make it true enough for the next few days. That is all he needs, all he has left. 

G'raha yearns to bring the Warrior comfort, but he has none that he can give. "I too lost someone once," he says instead, empathy the only thing he can offer. "'Tis not an easy thing to forget, if one even wishes to. I am sorry if my presence has reopened old wounds."

"Don't be. It's good to remember, even if it hurts. It's good to finally say it. I don't mean to weigh you down with my troubles, but it's been harder lately than usual, and… well, I feel comfortable talking to you, if that's even the right word for it. I don't know. My thoughts are so muddled these days. Thank you for listening." 

"You are most welcome," G'raha says. "There is little I can do to lighten your burden, but if lending an ear brings you some manner of peace, please know that I will do so at any time."

The Warrior nods, looking down as he kicks at the metal with the toe of his boot. "Just… please, don't think that's why I enjoy your company. That isn't fair to you. You said that I fascinate you, but you have much the same affect on me. There is so much you won't tell us, and maybe you really can't, but I don't care. I know I should, but even if reason says I should keep my distance, I'm of no mind to listen." G'raha sees the way The Warrior angles himself, the way his chin tilts as he tries to decipher the unreadable Exarch. He imagines those piercing eyes he used to drown in, radiant as gemstones caught in sunlight, black slits bearing little yet inviting him to learn more. "And… if I may speak plainly, I don't believe you're of a mind to listen either."

A hot rush of fear engulfs him, the sudden intensity lodging his pounding heart in his throat for him to choke on. He shuts his mouth, startled agape, turning his head to hide the pained look he knows he cannot fully conceal.

"Keep your secrets, Exarch." The Warrior's hushed voice cracks like G'raha has never heard, longing bringing him to break when not even the consuming light could. "Tell me why you smell like home."

Perhaps G'raha gives a glimpse of his cards when he says, "I cannot," but the game is already lost. "But what I can tell you is that your earlier assumption is not unfounded. I have no desire to keep my distance from you."

"Then don't," the Warrior urges.

"I _must_. You will understand soon enough."

G'raha thinks of the Umbilicus, of the last of his legacy entrusted to his dear Lyna. He wonders if she will take the Warrior there, or if Urianger will share the tale of the burden he has borne. He wonders if they will even need to. His beloved is stubborn, not daft, and G'raha knows his own senses well enough to understand what is happening. Home is not a scent he could ever forget. He _hasn't_. The Warrior wants him to fold, to give up the pretenses that stand between them wider than the rift, but the charade is his armor, and he will wear it until the battle has been won.

"Promise me this, then. When all of this is over, if I'm lucky enough to make it out of this alive, no more of these games. I want to know you properly. I know you want the same."

G'raha has no need to smother the wounded whine that claws up from his chest. The Warrior does it for him with a hand on his shoulder, a gentle touch meant to soothe, though it does anything but. He flinches, but before the Warrior can pull back his hand, G'raha seizes it, holding it in place where it rests.

He is not strong enough to resist this, the antidote to his self-imposed sedation. He will take nothing but this, one last touch of his love's battle-hardened skin after so many years without, the warmth of it that will go on long after G'raha has taken away his pain.

"You will live," G'raha says, nothing left of his voice but tattered shreds as he tightens his starving grip. "Of this, you have my word."

Of the rest, he does not speak. 

"After the end, I'll come find you." The Warrior squeezes G'raha's shoulder, and G'raha senses the finality of it, letting him go. "For now, I will leave you to your stargazing. Enjoy your evening, Exarch."

G'raha makes no mention that there will be nothing for his Seeker to find, but he has to say _something_. His eyes follow the Warrior's feet as he makes to leave, casting his covered gaze over his shoulder.

Uttering the Warrior's name at the bottom of a breath, G'raha bids him goodnight. 

The Warrior's step stutters, but he doesn't stop. His tail lashes low at his heels, his tense fingers curling into claws as he heads back toward the stairs.

It is not the first time G'raha has meant it as goodbye, though this time it is more of a prelude to parting than a final farewell. The sound of footsteps on the wrought iron ring in time with the pounding of his heart, shaking him, echoing throughout his entire being. A sob threatens to spring from his throat, but he scatters it to the breeze with a gritted hiss, bowing his head as his crystalline fingers nearly dent the railing with the ferocity of what he feels, the enormity of everything he is forced to bury.

G'raha wills himself to breathe so that he doesn't succumb to the temptation to scream. He fixates on the ghost of a touch on his shoulder to keep him grounded, the weight of his cowl to push him back down, deep beneath the crushing shroud of the Crystal Exarch.

 _When all of this is over_ , the Warrior had said.

When all of this is over, the hero, his _love_ , will live. Price and penance will be gladly paid, and maybe, just maybe, they will both be freed from all of this.

G'raha sighs, forsakes himself.

Whatever will become of them, it will be over soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
